Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

he is consistently a whole mood & well i'll be a dirty bird riley is delmar

it wasn't so much that esmé expected brains, as esmé expected a trifle, a kernel, a shade of critical thinking skills. hell, she'd settle for the evaporate residue of common sense if it meant he understood why his bid for companionship was so ludicrous. 

her expression was uncooperative with the weazened, cane-bearing angel on her shoulder, imploring that she confer with the kindliness impressed on her soul at birth, but she blew the sucker off with a puff of breath. the burden of pity was not touchingly borne, and esmé turned impassibly away as he stared sorely at the ground, troubled by her rejection. 

she gave him the helm for the last leg of their journey, "tempt thee not demimondaine with thy callipygian flesh, for thine gentleman is hornt up" so and such, though she did grow weary of glancing to see a face bluer than a dead man's lips.

after a time he walked taller, though she was more percipient than he took her for if he thought she wouldn't still note the air of glumness in his stride. esmé blew a raspberry and groaned, "i'm boooooored."